It’s quiet in the room except for the soft clink of the cup hitting the counter. You stare at the spilled drink on the floor, liquid spreading too fast, soaking into the rug. Your chest tightens and before you can stop it, tears blur your vision.

“Oh,” Sunoo says, turning. “Hey, it’s okay. I can clean that up.”

But you’re already crying. Not pretty crying. The kind where your shoulders curl inward and your breath keeps catching. “It’s stupid,” you say quickly, wiping at your face too hard. “I know it’s stupid, I’m sorry, I’ll clean it, I just—”

He almost laughs. Almost tells you it’s not a big deal. Almost reaches for a towel and moves on. Almost. Then he hears it.

Not the words, but the way your voice shakes like it’s been holding itself together for hours. The way you keep apologizing. The way your hands tremble even though it’s just a drink on the floor.

Sunoo stops moving. “…This isn’t about the drink, is it?” he asks carefully.